


Checking Out

by Gebo



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gebo/pseuds/Gebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>temporalteatime prompted: mr. gold is more woobie rum and has a hard time keeping his senses around the new librarian. he proceeds to attempt to gain her attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checking Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of nightmare-induced insomnia and an adorable prompt from temporalteatime at 2am. Hopefully it's not too mangled from lack of sleep. Enjoy!

Gods, her hair! The way it cascaded down her shoulders in imperfect and messy little waves and ringlets. Her hair was like an unintentional piece of art, like one of those modern works that had always looks to him like random paint splatters on a canvas. He made a mental note to look into that specific type of art at the first opportunity. It would not do to be thinking about metaphors he could quite get his head around. Not that he intended to continue making metaphors about the pretty little librarian that was currently perusing his shops.

But, gods, look at her fingers! They were so petite! Pale and delicate, and they looked so incredibly soft and well-cared for, ending in perfectly painted nails. He watched her hands run over the face of an old mantle clock, but he could tell that she was simply touching things as she looked around for something… what?

“If there’s, erm, anything I can help you find?” he offered, his voice sounding somewhat stronger than anticipated. He had expected to croak out a jumble of words, so muddled was his brain.

He could smell her perfume from where he stood behind the register. It smelled vaguely of honey and some sort of flowering herb, perhaps lavender. He inhaled deeply despite himself and closed his eyes. His weight leaned heavily on his cane as he was lulled into a sort of stupor by her mere present. With is eyes closed, he imagined those flawless little hands resting on his shoulders, or running through his hair. He saw in his mind’s eye her plump pink lips coming closer and closer to his own, open slightly in invitation. He saw her unbelievable brilliant blue-green eyes watching him, almost as if he could see into his very soul. He could hear her voice, saying his name, like a prayer from her sweet mouth.

Her voice!

Gold opened his eyes and jolted visibly. Miss Belle French was, in fact, standing in front of him and she was, in fact, saying his name.

“Mr. Gold?” she repeated, looking at him with a slight tilt to her head. He struggled to remember what she had said, or what he had asked her for that matter.

“Umm, yes. Sorry?” He rocked back on his heels his cane leaving the floor momentarily only to taps back down in a slow and nervous rhythm.

“I’m looking for a birthday present. For my father?” she said, but there was a small smile curving her lips and not a trace of annoyance in her voice. “I was wondering if you had any ideas.”

“Yes. A birthday gift, of course.” He thought for a moment about all that he knew of his tenant Moe French, but he came up short. He didn’t much care what his tenants’ hobbies were or what they did in their spare time, so long as the rent was paid on time and any conflict could be avoided. He did so hate when a situation had to be solved with anything other than careful civility.

Miss French was waiting for him, so he did his best to gather his thoughts and set off around the corner of the glass counters.

“Now, let’s see here…. A gift for a father. Ah!” He bent hurriedly and pulled a rather ornate cherry wood box from one case. She had followed him from the opposite side of the counter, so he flipped it open and as she peered in, began to rattle off the details of the straight razor inside. “This is a very finely crafted blade, Miss French. Imported from Italy, the blade is finest tempered steel and the handle is teak, inlayed with silver.” She reached out and plucked the razor from the box, unfolding it and turning it over in her hands. He found himself staring again and losing track of what he was saying. “The, erm, set comes with a… bottle. For lathering soap. And a sort of… leather strap for-“ Her head snapped up and she had the most fascinating and mischievous grin on her face he had ever seen. He felt his knees go week and his gripped on the countertop tightened until his knuckles were white. “F-for sharpening the, erm, blade.”

He looked away from her face. She was so beautiful, and she was half his age, and he was a lonely old pawnbroker with a bum leg and a weak past. But she was just so beautiful!

“Hmm, it is beautiful,” she said and his hopes rose. “But my father insists on the disposable razors, I think. And I wouldn’t trust him to not rip his ear off with this. Perhaps something a little less.,. dangerous?”

He nodded, eager now to find something to her approval. He lead her over to a tall mirror-fronted wardrobe.

“I believe I’ve just the thing, in here!” he said and opened the doors with an overdone flourish. A moment later, he wished he hadn’t, for the left-hand door swung too hard and to quickly to catch, splintering the wood on the hinges. The door came crashing to the floor, and the mirror on the front shattered. In his dazed panic, he blindly reached to catch it, unthinking of the consequences, and then yelped as the jagged shards of the glass sliced his hand as grabbed at them. He stumbled backwards, knocking into the little librarian and they both tumbled to the floor.

His only thoughts were that they were a safe distance away from the remains of the mirror door and that he had thankfully managed to not squash Miss French. She, it seemed, had a far more level head in a crisis.

“Your hand!” she exclaimed. He looked down and realized he had several cuts running along his left palm and across his fingers. Blood was streaming from them and dripping onto the floor. He sighed as once again, however irrationally, his only thought was how uncomfortable it would be to kneel on the floor to scrub that stain later.

Miss French had grabbed his hand to examine it, her brow furrowed. No one should look that pretty with their face all scrunched up like that, Gold decided, and yet she managed it.

“Where do you keep your first aid kit?” she asked.

“In the back room,” he replied vaguely, watching her with a dazed little smile. “In the bottom drawer of the desk by the tea cupboard.” She immediately sprung to her feet and went in search of the kit.

“Go to the bathroom and run some cold water over that. Gently, though.”

By the time he had managed to heave himself to his feet one-handed and hobble into the bathroom in the back, she had found the kit and pulled out the necessary supplies. Half of an hour later, and she had removed all evidence of glass from his hand to her satisfaction, applied antibiotic ointment, and wrapped in with gauze and come medical tape. It was neatly done and to his surprised delight, she topped it off with a light kiss as she laid the last piece of tape on the wound.

“There you are. None the worse for wear,” she said, smiling up at him. Gold couldn’t say he agreed; his already meek pride having been curled up in a corner of his psyche whimpering for the last thirty minutes. But he couldn’t stop himself from replaying the memory of her leaning down to press her lips to his bandaged hand. He could only nod.

“I suppose I should come back tomorrow to find a present. You should really rest your hand.”

“Y-you’re leaving?” he said before he thought over the words. “I mean… the present. For your father. Won’t you want to find something?” She was already straightening up and reaching for her coat which she had tossed aside in her hurry to treat his hand.

“Oh, I will, I’m sure.” She grinned at him as she pulled on her coat and walked towards the curtain to the front of the shop. “I’ll need to come back tomorrow to check on your hand, at any rate…. I’ll find something then.” She swept past the curtain and was gone, leaving Mr. Gold with a bewildered expression, a wounded pride, and an even worse left hand. Still, with her out of sight, it thoughts were no more rational than they had been since the moment she had stepped into his shop:

_He really must remember to go check out some books._


End file.
